


The old writer

by numbika



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: GNU Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 05:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numbika/pseuds/numbika
Summary: In memory of Terry Pratchett, writer and world smith, whose work taught me the true meaning of fantasy and that one can be serious and funny at the same time.





	The old writer

The ethereal visage of the writer stood silently. The world slowly faded away into black around him, forms becoming intangible, colours washing out. In the end, all that remained was darkness. And then, a patch of darkness moved, revealing itself to be a cloak, made out from different colours of the deepest immense black. Under the cloak stood a skeleton. Bones, with the yellow tinge of time, with the absence of any kind of musculature or organs, but nevertheless standing straight and tall.  The figures eyes glowed with an eerie blue corpse-light, and in his hands, he grasped a slightly rusty scythe. In short, he looked like…

“Death?” The old writer smiled a little “I wouldn’t be so arrogant to believe I got you exactly as you are.” The skeleton gave a small nod, which was both approving and, in some measure, respectful at the same time.

“TRUTH. I AM QUITE DIFFERENT. YET, I AM STILL THE SAME.” The old man’s smile remained, if something he was always good, that was corkscrew thinking.

“Then, why did you choose to appear in such a familiar form? To comfort me?” The skeleton slowly cocked his skull to one side and then shook his head.

“DO YOU NEED ANY?” The old man took a big breath, it was quite an achievement considering his ethereal form lacked the organs necessary for such an action.

“No, I don’t think so. I wish I had longer time, but I also made my peace. Then what is the reason? If you don’t mind me asking.” The glow in the skeletons eye softened a little.

“TO THANK YOU. DURING THE EXISTENCE OF YOUR SPECIES I BORE COUNTLESS NAMES. I WAS A SPIRIT, A CURSE, A MONSTER, A GOD, YET DESPITE ALL THE OBSESSION WITH ME, ALL THE REVERENCE, ALL THE FEAR, THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT I WAS NOT.” The skeleton paused a little.

“LIKED. I WAS ALWAYS THE END, ALWAYS SOMETHING FRIGHTENING. NO MATTER HOW THEY TRIED TO MASK IT, DENY IT, RATIONALISE IT AWAY, THEY ALWAYS DREADED ME. YOU MADE THEM LIKE ME.”

The old man considered this, and gave a questioning look to the skeleton.

“It wasn’t you, not really. Doesn’t it bother you?” The cloak fluttered as its owner stepped closer leaning on his scythe.

“BUT IT WAS ME. A PART OF ME ANYWAY. DAYS AGO, I HAD TO REAP A GIRL, NOT YET DOZEN OF YOUR YEARS OLD.” The old man waited for the skeleton to continue in a solemn silence. “SHE HUGGED ME. SHE TOLD ME HER MOTHER READ FROM YOUR BOOK TO HER. SHE ASKED ME TO SHOW HER MY GARDEN. ” The writer shuddered a little, it was unmistakable that he was deeply touched. Otherwise the master of an ocean of masterfully crafted and applied words, now he found none which he felt appropriate. “SO, I CAME IN THE END TO TELL YOU, THAT IT ALL WAS NOT FOR NAUGHT. THAT IT MEANT SOMETHING. ” The writer nodded, slowly, words once again slipping from his grasp.

“I did what I could, I am sure that I could hav-…”

“NO.  THIS WAS ENOUGH.” The old man nodded once again and looked into the glowing eyes of the skeleton.

“And now?”

“AND NOW WE WALK.” Despite himself the old writer couldn’t help but ask.

“Where?”

“THAT DEPENDS. BUT DO NOT FRET, YOU WONT BE ALONE. THERE WILL BE MANY TO FOLLOW YOUR FOOTSTEPS, THEY WILL WALK BEHIND YOU WHEREVER YOU GO. COME, WE MUSTN’T LET THEM WAIT…”

**Author's Note:**

> GNU Terry Pratchett


End file.
